Out to Eat
by the monochromatic
Summary: Italy decides that a dinner date needs some spicing up. Embarrassment of Germany ensues. De-anoned Kink Meme fill. You know what to expect.


This was a stupid idea, Ludwig thought. Why had he agreed to this? Whose bright idea was it to go on a double date? The phrase alone sounded stupid: _double date_. All in all, it could certainly be worse; Roderich and Elizabeta weren't terrible company, on the whole. And easily, he could have found himself at a truly awkward dinner, had Lovino bothered to return Feliciano's call. God, he could just _imagine_ that: the stiff air as he and Lovino exchanged laser-trained death-glares while Feliciano and Antonio caught up, oblivious.

Perhaps this night wasn't so bad, in hindsight.

Ludwig's fork clattered noisily onto his plate, lodging itself in a bed of potatoes. "My apologies," he grumbled to Roderich, who had been in the middle of a very long (and verbose) retelling of the couple's latest encounter with their touchy Swiss neighbor.

Without much of a second glance, Roderich accepted the apology and blustered on.

Still, there was Feliciano's hand, warm and pliant on his thigh. Ludwig's eyes trailed beneath the table a moment, and he had to stifle a moan when Feli squeezed his firm muscles. When he looked up though, the Italian was sitting, bumbling smile in place while he listened to the less than rousing tale.

Ludwig shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. Feliciano's hand was creeping upward, gently stroking the inside of his thigh through the soft trouser fabric. His face showed no sign, however, of devious intent or perverted fantasy. In fact, at present, he was upholding a shockingly composed conversation with Elizabeta, giving her tips for a lovely dessert recipe. Yet all the while, his thin fingers continued to glide up and down, massaging and teasing, lovingly tracing circles at random.

Ludwig felt he would be lucky if he did not reflexively kick somebody before the night was out.

When the appetizers were cleared and their nifty waiter had lain out the main course, Ludwig still found no peace. Somehow going unnoticed, Feliciano was delving into his dinner single-handedly, animatedly laughing with the couple opposite them. Meanwhile, that pesky, duplicitous hand was joined in its assault by a bare foot, escaped from its fancy leather shoe and grey, cashmere sock. Ludwig tried very hard not to choke when Feliciano brushed his immaculate toes beneath the cuff of his trousers, hooking their legs together possessively.

Still, Feli blathered on, affecting innocence.

"Are you alright, _vetter_?" Roderich asked, concerned eyes peering over the top of his glasses. "You look a tad...flustered."

Ludwig took what felt like an eon to finish chewing, swallowing hard before he could answer. "Fine," was all that came out, curt and unconvincing. Out of the corner of his eye, Ludwig saw that Feliciano was regarding him with concern, as if he didn't know. "Really," pressed Ludwig.

Roderich squinted at him suspiciously for a moment before resuming conversation.

"_What are you doing_?" Ludwig whispered out the side of his mouth. He desperately wanted to grab Feliciano's hand and force it away, but could not do so without drawing attention to them.

Feli shrugged happily, savoring a succulent prosciutto tortellini. "Just sit back and enjoy dinner, Germany!" he smiled, still paying rapt attention to the present conversation. His hand moved higher then, brushing Ludwig's hardening length _much – too – gently_. He giggled, relishing how tense Ludwig's muscles went under his touch. Additionally, he scraped his perfect, crescent toenails along the sensitive patch on Ludwig's calve before retreating altogether.

Ludwig watched in silent agony while Feliciano removed his hand to take up his fork. Rudely, he reached across to Ludwig's plate and speared a Bockwurst and tentatively sampled it, chewing with all the scrutiny of a virtuoso. A crooked little grin bloomed across his lips as he swallowed.

"Germany's wurst is delicious!" he proclaimed, earning an endeared pair of smiles from the other two and a frustrated bite of the lip from Ludwig, who understood _precisely _what he was saying. "Still, not as good as Italian salami!"

Ludwig couldn't remember blushing this much in his entire life. Heat flooded his face and he could feel his sweat glands working overtime. The way Feliciano's lips engulfed the remaining sausage in one go wasn't the least bit helpful.

_How do they not see this?_ he wondered of his fellow dinner dates. _How are they so blind?_

As dinner progressed, Feliciano's assault grew only worse. With the lamb and stuffed peppers, his hand returned to Ludwig's thigh, fingers running rampant over the inner seam, teasing, testing. Ludwig bit back his protest and endured it. Not without distress, though. With every bite, with every lull in the conversation, Feliciano would get bolder and bolder. The heel of his palm pressed daringly into Ludwig's erection, rubbing, coaxing it into growing impossibly harder.

Ludwig's knuckles were white around his butter knife.

By the time the _Tarte au Citron _was served, Ludwig was trying desperately to make clear his position on the DGB's proposal to integrate the siesta into the German workday all while withstanding Feliciano's ardent attack. He nearly choked on his words when he felt his zipper come undone and Feliciano's slender, soft fingers dip beneath the waistband of his boxers, finding their hold with astounding dexterity.

"You really should chew before you swallow, Germany!" Feliciano suggested, the smile on his face unbearably patronizing.

Ludwig was about to deliver his snappish retort, but it was stopped short by the tight squeeze Feliciano employed on his cock under the table. Instead, he grunted in what he hoped sounded like humble accession. He pretended to listen intently as Elizabeta prattled on about the new Draft Labor Code, nodding and 'hmm'ing in all the appropriate places; meanwhile, just under cover of the linen tablecloth, Feliciano's hand was stroking him, tightly and in astonishingly good time with the music of the restaurant piano, had Ludwig cared to notice.

But he didn't, not when that hand was moving incessantly up and down, a thumb applying pressure _just_ along a vein; not when those warm, perfect fingers were gripping _hard_ around the base; not when a fingertip ran teasingly over his balls. Ludwig was biting back a truly grotesque moan when, all of a sudden, there was nothing. Startled, he looked up.

"Excuse me for just a moment." Feliciano stood, pushing in his chair, disappearing into the din.

Now what? Ludwig wondered if he might be able to tuck himself back in without being conspicuous, or if it would even matter. When Feliciano returned, he might start all over again. Ludwig both welcomed and dreaded the prospect.

"Ludwig, you've hardly touched your _tarte_," Elizabeta commented, concerned.

Carefully, he waved her off. "I was, er, just so engrossed in our conversation that I –" and here, he was cut short, for a warm, _heavenly _wetness had enveloped his cock, something soft lapping at the shaft, tonguing the slit and – _Mein Gott, is that Italy?_ he wondered, dizzy. He blinked, struggling to remember what he had been saying. Oh, right. "I'm just – _ah_ – so torn by the arguments you're being presented with, you know. They both make so much sense."

Elizabeta nodded, but Roderich was eying him dubiously.

"_Please_," he said, trying with all his might not to buck into that lovely mouth, "do go on." Slamming his chin on his elbow, he did his best to look politely interested.

And sure enough, when he reached down, it was for his hand to fist into the smooth, silky strands of hair that had become all too familiar. He alternated between tugging Feliciano closer and pushing him away, wanting to end this ridiculous torture one way or the other. He was terrified, truly, that any moment now someone was going to notice; Feliciano's foot might nudge Elizabeta's shin, or he might moan around Ludwig's cock, alerting the whole table to his presence.

These anxieties were soon flushed from his mind, however, when he felt Feliciano take him all the way into his mouth, managing to suck and swirl his tongue at the same time. Was it Ludwig's imagination, or was the table shaking slightly? Oh, perhaps if he wasn't gripping it so tightly...

"Goodness, would you look at that," Roderich observed astutely, and shivers of terror trembled through Ludwig's spine. "It's nearly eleven."

Ludwig heaved a sigh equal parts relief and longing; Roderich may not have noticed, but Feliciano was now pumping Ludwig's cock in and out of his mouth. It was a good thing he was short, mused Ludwig, else his head might bump the table and give him away.

"Forgive me, but I fear I must cut this lovely dinner short. Please give my regrets to Italy," Roderich drawled lazily, not looking entirely remorseful.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll only be a minute or two longer," Elizabeta chimed, grabbing Roderich's arm.

But the brunette shook his head, sighing. "I have to get up early, really." He turned to Ludwig and thanked him for the evening, discreetly laying his half of the bill on the table under the salt.

Dimly, Ludwig watched the pair walk away, and vaguely registered that they seemed to be chatting amongst themselves. Maybe they knew, maybe not, but at the moment, with the miracles Feliciano's tongue was performing, he couldn't be bothered. He was only faintly aware of paying what was left of the night's tab – and tipping the waiter generously, if only by accident. All the while, Feliciano worked furiously over his cock; now that they were alone at the table, he hummed quietly, burying Ludwig in his throat for the experience. He was more generous with his sucking, no longer fearful of being overheard.

He paused though, at one point, and whispered, "Germany! Hey Germany, hand me my drink!"

"What?" Ludwig tried to sound impatient, but it didn't work out too well.

"Please?"

Accommodating him, Ludwig scrunched his nose at the strong aroma emitted by the crème de menthe, looking both ways before sliding it under the table. He waited, impatiently drumming his fingers on the tabletop. What was...was Feliciano _gargling_? All at once, though, Ludwig's mind was wiped clear as a whole new sensation enshrouded him: hot and yet cool, wet and tingly. Ludwig had to bite his lip to restrain the moan that was lodged in his chest, threatening to burst there. And speaking of bursting...

The table trembled slightly as Feliciano's head hit the underside while he bobbed up and down Ludwig's cock, taking shallow sucks and winding both hands around the base. He twisted and turned, gently squeezing; it nicely complimented the slick laps of his tongue, the soft moans that sent Ludwig's eyes fluttering.

At long, long last, Ludwig felt his abdomen tighten, felt that tenuous, yet somehow very real force rush downward. The next thing he knew, Feliciano had clamped his lips tight around Ludwig's cock, swallowing as much of the German's cum as he could before turning away. Unable to see it, the sudden lack came as a shock, but Ludwig was too busy basking in sated bliss for it to really be unpleasant.

Slowly, cautiously, Feliciano emerged from beneath the table. He was smiling, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, honey-brown eyes narrowed slyly. Putting a hand on his Ludwig's arm, he whispered, "Let's go home now; Germany hasn't had _his_ dessert yet!"

Goosebumps crisscrossed along Ludwig's arms at the suggestion, and the hair at the nape of his neck stood on end. He coughed. "You're...you're quite right, Italy," he murmured, cheeks blotched and rosy. "I've already paid the bill and I'd rather have it at home, besides."

"That's what I thought!" The Italian chirped, holding onto Ludwig's arm as they strolled out of the restaurant. He was cheerfully looking forward to getting a return on his rather risky investment, whistling a happy tune as he buckled himself into Ludwig's sleek Mercedes.

Across the parking lot, Roderich waited indignantly while Elizabeta squealed beside him, binoculars pressed firmly against her pretty face. He cleared his throat once, twice. "Are you quite ready?" he demanded at last. "I've already been made to sit through _that_ this evening. I'd like to get home before midnight, _my dear_."

His wife's only response was a shrill giggle, and a gentle pat on the shoulder. Her sweet fingers had long ago lost their callouses, but specters of bumps – little tomb-like hills, almost – still adorned the insides. These tamed warrior's fingers brushed across his neck, willowing temptingly over his lips, surprising him. Without taking her eyes off the scene across the way – which had evolved into a steamy lip-lock – she told him, "We can go. But only if you promise me a little bit of _lip service_ when we get back."

Before Elizabeta could properly remove the binoculars, the key was in the ignition, and Roderich had shifted into reverse so fast that she was flung forward by the force of his turn. It would seem that Ludwig wasn't the only one hungry for dessert.

* * *

><p>Yet another de-anon from Kink Meme. I hope you've enjoyed it :)<p> 


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